


fall softly and adore

by badskeletonpuns



Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Fluff, Getting Together, Grooming, M/M, Sappy, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 16:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskeletonpuns/pseuds/badskeletonpuns
Summary: Everyone's-got-wings AU. It's vaguely canon-adjacent aside from that!Five times Ben Arnolddidn'toffer to preen Sammy's wings, and one time he did. (And how incredibly sappily that time went.)





	fall softly and adore

**Author's Note:**

> look, y'all, someone had to write it. and that someone was me! important knowledge: sammy is a california condor and ben is a sparrowhawk.   
> BIG thanks to [sage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidbreezefc/pseuds/orchidbreezefc/works) for the cheerleading and enthusiastic enabling of this!!!!

Ben almost offers to preen Sammy’s wings five times. 

The first time is soon after they meet. Well, Ben says “soon.” He means “the first moment he saw Sammy,” with those giant fuck-off condor wings tucked against his back like that made them any more subtle. It would have been super weird to offer right then, but. Sammy just looked so stressed already, taut with worry and anxiety.

And then it’s barely a month later, still way early to be thinking about this by anyone’s standards. But seriously, how is Ben supposed to sit across from Sammy all night, watching him worry at his secondaries, and  _ not _ want to make him sit still long enough for Ben to groom his feathers till they gleam? It’s a perfectly reasonable desire. 

After that, Ben begins to notice more. Every time they get a call from that one guy who seems weirdly obsessed with “Shotgun Sammy,” Sammy himself puffs up like a marshmallow in the microwave. Ben is not being hypocritical; he knows he gets just as ruffled every time Pete Meyers or Greg Frickard call in. But he, at least, can get at enough of his own wingspan to comb his feathers back down afterward. Each time Sammy gets agitated he just gets increasingly untidy, and his half-hearted attempts to pat down what feathers he can reach do nothing. 

The fourth time Ben almost cracks, they’ve known each other for over a year and he’s seen Sammy fly maybe twice. Ben’s in the air now, wheeling through shafts of early-morning sunlight. He’d barely gotten out of the studio before he’d run and jumped into the air, snapping his wings open to take off. 

Sammy ambles out after him, seemingly content to stand and watch Ben glide around the parking lot. But he’d been there for that mess of a show just as much as Ben had, and there's no way he’s not also itching to get out of here. 

On a related note, fuck HFB III. 

Sure, the two of them could drive somewhere, but that just defeats the purpose of having wings. 

He hovers above Sammy as best he can, even if he’s probably buffeting Sammy with the downdraft. Look, Ben’s wings are meant more for swooping down on prey from above than they are for a gentle hover. 

“Come on, let’s get out of here!” 

Sammy squints up at Ben and shields his face with a wing. “I’m good, buddy.” 

Ben lands next to Sammy, risks bumping Sammy’s extended wing with his own. “It’ll be fun! Getting out in the real forest, cleansing ourselves of HFB3’s bull, just two guys, you know. Fun stuff.” 

“As tempting as that is, I’m gonna have to decline.” Sammy folds his wings against his back, tightly enough that it looks painful. 

Ben actually opens his mouth to offer, because that can’t be doing good things to Sammy’s feathers. But he thinks better of it. He shuts his mouth and shrugs. Just follows Sammy to their cars and lets it go. 

Probably best not to pry, right? 

The fifth time, well. Ben doesn’t want to talk about the fifth time. And whatever Emily or Lily say about marshmallow fluff explosions, they’re lying. 

Besides, it’s not like it was  _ that _ hard for those two to get the stuff off the ceiling fan. It was a hell of a lot harder to get it out of your own feathers. Not that Ben would know from experience. 

And the frosting was delicious, so there. 

Ben is, at this point, well acquainted with the urge to get his hands on Sammy’s wings. In a totally platonic way, of course, because Sammy’s sexuality definitely does not mean that he’s got as massive of a crush on Ben as Ben has on him. And it isn’t like he is ever going to say anything; he can’t risk making Sammy uncomfortable or messing up their friendship. 

It’s as much of a shock to him as it is to Sammy when he finally offers aloud.

The two of them are at home, half watching House Hunters and half napping in Ben’s living room. Late afternoon sunlight streams through windows, framing a perfect sunbeam on the carpet. Ben hums in appreciation from his spot in the middle of said sunbeam, and stretches out his wings as far as he’s got space for. His primaries brush the base of the TV on one side and Sammy’s shins on the other. 

“Cozy?” Sammy asks. He’s sitting on Ben’s couch, or at least he was the last time Ben looked up at him. Not nearly relaxed enough for a Sunday afternoon, in Ben’s opinion. 

“Mhhm,” he agrees. He doesn’t even open his eyes to respond, laying flat on his stomach and soaking in the warmth. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” His wings twitch as Sammy’s legs and ankles brush against one of them—Sammy must have brought his legs up onto the couch. 

Hopefully Ben hasn’t like, broken some unspoken bro-wing rule here with the ankle-touching. If he has, Sammy doesn’t say anything. 

The TV keeps playing on low; the couple on screen debating about budgets and hardwood floors. Between the quiet familiarity of its predictable dialogue and the comforting in and out of Sammy’s breathing, Ben is nearly asleep in moments. 

Except… An odd sound itches at the back of his mind. It’s sort of rustley and fidgety? The noise persists, whispering and shuffling around. 

Ben cracks an eye open, glancing around for the source. 

Sammy is still sitting on Ben’s couch, knees tucked to his chest and wings at ridiculous angles. His right is half-extended behind him, butting up against the wall and twitching every time he tugs at the feathers on his left wing. Sammy’s brought said wing in front of him, holding it close and picking at his coverts. 

Ben starts talking before he even realizes what he’s saying. “Oh man, that can’t be comfortable. I could help, if you want?” 

The look on Sammy’s face at Ben’s voice is fucking heartbreaking. There’s a panic in his eyes, the way they widen and keep darting to and from Ben’s face, like he can’t bear to look at him but can’t stop trying. His mouth is drawn tight, face gray, and he just looks… so scared. 

“I mean you know we could also just forget I ever said anything, at all, in the history of the town!” Ben backpedals so quickly he almost trips over his own words. 

And then Sammy smiles at him, and it’s so small and so hesitant that Ben is picking himself up off of the ground and sitting at the foot of the couch in two seconds flat. He can’t not get closer to that smile, it would be like, like trying to get the tides to stop following the moon, or something.

Ben is vaguely aware of his own brown and white feathers drifting across the room, disturbed by the speed of his movements. He flaps once or twice, unable to stop himself. “Sorry, sorry!” 

Sammy shakes his head, that tiny smile still on his face even as his eyes stay wide and fearful. “It’s fine, Ben. Don’t worry about it, I’ll… I’ll just go.” He snags the remote and turns off the TV, making to get off the couch.

“No, wait, please,” and Ben is babbling now, this is ridiculous. “Seriously.” He takes a deep breath and glances down. Fiddling with the ends of his own feathers is a valid strategy to avoid eye contact, right? “I know, um, you have sort of like, a thing with your wings? And I’m not gonna pry, you don’t have to explain anything to me or anyone, but. I thought I could help? Preening, I mean. That’s like, a thing people do.” 

“Yes. Preening is a thing people do,” Sammy says dryly. He’s still so tense, both wings pulled in as close to himself as he can get them, but he’s not fleeing for the hills just yet. 

“And you know your wings are huge and gorgeous and it can’t be comfortable having them so ruffled all the—”

“Gorgeous?” Sammy’s voice cracks on the word. 

Ben looks back up, flushing, and Sammy’s staring right at him. The smile is gone but so is the fear, and so is that taut, drawn tension in his jaw. And Ben can’t try to play it off, to himself or to Sammy. Not when Sammy’s face is more open than he’s seen it in months. “Yeah. Gorgeous.” 

There is a moment of silence, and Ben thinks that  _ for once _ Sammy might let himself have this one nice thing. Ben wants that so badly it hurts. 

Sammy laughs, and it’s rough; it breaks like his voice did when he said ‘gorgeous.’ “Sure, Benny. Thanks.” 

And Ben can tell Sammy doesn’t believe him. He’s going to make some excuse and leave and pretend like this never happened. So Ben jumps up onto the couch next to Sammy, just inches away from him. “No, I mean it.” He isn’t going to touch Sammy, not until Sammy says it’s okay. But he can at least be close. 

“Not gonna call me out on ‘Benny’?” Sammy asks. Both of his wings are down in front of him now, the dark feathers blocking Ben’s view of most of his friend. 

Ben shakes his head. “No deflecting.” Even when Sammy won’t look back at him, Ben doesn’t let his gaze waver. “Sammy, you’re—” And his own voice breaks, and he’s blinking back tears, and he  _ has _ to keep going. “You’re amazing. Your wings… I’ll never forget that time you condor’d Grisham over the head, buddy, that was the best thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Sammy maybe laughs a little, or maybe he’s tearing up too. Ben can’t see him well enough to know anything for sure. All he can make out are the hitch in Sammy’s shoulders and the catch in his breathing. “Don’t, uh. Don’t think that’s a word.” 

“It is now.” Ben reaches out almost on impulse, and catches himself just before running his hand over the arch of Sammy’s wing. Sammy shifts just enough to see Ben do so, and his eyes dart from Ben’s hand to his face. 

“You don’t…” Sammy shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re offering here, Ben.” 

“Whatever you want, Sammy.” It’s so quiet in here now, nothing and no one save the two of them. Ben leans in, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Sammy. “I promise, I won’t do anything you aren’t okay with.” 

A shiver runs over Sammy’s wings, and Ben feels his own flutter in response. 

When Sammy responds, his voice is barely audible. “What if I want a lot?” 

“Then…” Ben pulls his wings in, bracketing the two of them as best he can with his smaller wingspan. It’s like a bubble, soft feathers blocking out the rest of the world. Reducing all that matters down to the two of them. “It’s yours,” he says, the words riding on an exhale of everything he’s ever wanted. “Anything. Everything.” 

“Benny,” Sammy says again, helpless. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

_ “Please.” _ Sammy turns in place, drawing back his wings so that Ben can get closer. Their feathers brush as they move together, and Ben can’t stop from smiling at the feeling. He pulls Sammy into a tight hug before he moves back, just far enough to press his lips to Sammy’s. 

It’s chaste, gentle, a hundred words Ben can’t say aloud. 

Sammy kisses him back. There are too many details for Ben to categorize all at once: his hands, steady on Ben’s face. His lips, chapped and warm. The way Ben’s beaming almost too much to keep kissing him. “I really did mean what I said about the preening thing,” Ben gets out in between kisses. 

“Trust me, you don’t want to deal with this mess.” Sammy tucks his face against Ben’s shoulder, speaking more into Ben’s shirt than to Ben himself. He flaps a few times for emphasis, though he can really only get the wing on the side  _ away _ from the wall extended enough to move much. Black feathers, interspersed with white ones from the underside of his wings, scatter across the room. 

Ben combs his fingers through Sammy’s hair. It’s down, falling in messy waves, and Ben can’t believe it’s okay for him to do this now. Sammy isn’t pulling away or looking at him in disgust. Quite the opposite. When Ben strokes down the curve of Sammy’s scalp, he nearly melts into Ben. 

“Seriously, Sammy, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “Can I just—?” Sammy nods before Ben even finishes talking. 

At the first touch of Ben’s hand, smoothing over the arch of Sammy’s wing, Sammy sighs. His breath is hot, even through Ben’s shirt. Ben can’t help but laugh softly. “I haven’t even gotten started yet.” 

Sammy shrugs; both wings shift along with his shoulders. He doesn’t move from where he’s curled into Ben, and Ben is more than willing to keep him near. But they do have to shuffle around at least a bit if Ben’s actually going to help Sammy out here. “You wanna turn around for me?”

“If you’re sure.” Sammy turns carefully, slowly, never getting any further from Ben than he has to. The two of them settle with Ben’s back against the arm of the couch and Sammy sitting between his legs, as close together as they can be without Ben getting a mouthful of feathers every time Sammy moves. 

“Alright, I’m gonna start with getting rid of all the dead feathers, kay?” Ben keeps his voice low; his tone, gentle. Sammy hums a little in agreement, and Ben starts working his hands through Sammy’s feathers. 

It takes some time. Ben hadn’t been lying when he’d commented on the size of Sammy’s wings—it’s enough to dwarf a sparrowhawk like himself. 

He loses himself in the work. Sammy is pliant under his hands, barely pushing back enough to keep his wings in place as Ben works them over. It’s been a while since Ben has preened anyone other than himself (he’d never gotten quite close enough to Emily for that), but the actions of it aren’t the kind of thing you forget. 

Broken or bent feathers stick out amongst the sleeker plumage, and it’s easy enough to comb through the ones Ben can’t see on the surface to find the tangles. Shed feathers start to litter the couch and carpet around the two of them, and still Ben works. 

By the time he’s gone over the upper and undersides of both wings, Sammy’s practically liquid. Ben digs his fingers into the scapular feathers, right where they bleed into the down on Sammy’s back. Sammy sighs again, and there’s enough voice to it that Ben would almost call it a moan. 

“You doing okay, buddy?” Ben asks, even though he thinks he already knows the answer. 

“More than.” Sammy leans back against Ben’s palms, solid and warm. When Ben makes no move to stop him, Sammy extends his wings out behind himself. They frame Ben on either side, just brushing against his shoulders and arms. God, Sammy’s feathers are like  _ silk _ .

Although, even with the newfound softness they’re dryer than they should be. But… Preen oil can be a delicate subject, and Ben doesn’t want to push anything. The idea niggles at the back of his mind even so, and he doesn’t dismiss it entirely. He wriggles his arms out from between them and wraps them under Sammy’s wings and around his waist to hold him close. 

Sammy’s got his head tipped back to rest on Ben’s shoulder now. Ben can see his face now, and the lack of tension there is goddamn  _ miraculous _ . He lets his head loll to one side, pressing his forehead against Ben’s neck. “Thank you.” 

Ben kisses the top of Sammy’s head. It’s all he can do to stop himself from declaring that he loves Sammy right then and there, especially with Sammy so soft and vulnerable in his arms like this. 

Their wings keep grazing against each other where they’re both extended behind them; a glancing, fleeting touch. 

“If you want,” Ben begins, and Sammy pulls away far enough to look back and meet Ben’s eyes. It’s harder to say with Sammy looking at him like this. “I could oil your wings?” 

For once, Sammy doesn’t tense up or flinch back. He leans back in, kisses Ben deep and slow. “You’re a fucking miracle, Ben Arnold.” He’s close enough that his lips brush Ben’s when he talks, and Ben can’t help but lean in to kiss him harder. 

He nips at Sammy’s lower lip, and Sammy keens just a little. When they separate, Sammy’s cheeks are flushed and his mouth hangs open just the smallest amount. And shit, Ben really wants to kiss him again but he also definitely wants to finish grooming Sammy’s wings. 

“Alright,” he gets out. He can’t take his eyes off Sammy’s lips. “Um. Wings back here. I said I’d help you out, and I meant it.” 

“Of course you did,” Sammy agrees. There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, and Ben’s never gonna hear the end of this. Somehow, he really doesn’t mind. Sammy brings his wings back up between himself and Ben, loosely bent to fit between them. 

At the questing touch of Ben’s fingers, brushing over secondaries and scapulars, Sammy trembles. His whole body shakes with it, sending loose feathers drifting every which way. Ben carefully tucks his fingers under the joint where Sammy’s right wing meets his body, putting gentle pressure on the hollow under his wing. The slits in the back of Sammy’s shirt let him get to it without too much trouble. 

Which is a shame, because Ben could definitely use an excuse to ask Sammy to take his shirt off. 

He puts the distracting thought of a shirtless Sammy out of his head for now, and concentrates on rubbing the ball of his thumb over Sammy’s oil gland. 

Almost no time passes until his fingers are oily and slick, and from then it’s easy work to run them through Sammy’s feathers. The coverts along the back, down through the alulals and primaries, paying special attention to the vanes of the flight-crucial feathers. 

Sammy keeps making these small, hitching sounds, halfway between moans and gasps. Ben’s not sure he even realizes he’s doing it. They’re—Ben isn’t sure of a better word for them than  _ reverent _ . 

He maybe spends more time than he needs to smoothing over Sammy’s feathers, but fuck that. Sammy deserves more than this; he deserves more than anyone could ever give him. Ben wants to take as much time as he can with this, aligning each quill and plume perfectly. 

At a certain point, Ben has to admit that there’s nothing more he can really do. He sits back a little, but leaves his hands buried in the thick down of Sammy’s scapular feathers. 

If he thought Sammy’s wings were beautiful before, they’re unbelievable now. The backs are glossy black, shining in what light remains in the early evening. Ben can’t see the undersides from where he’s sitting, but there’s no doubt in his mind that the white stripe along them stands out stark and lovely against the darker feathers. 

Once Ben’s stopping petting Sammy for a few moments, Sammy twists to look at him. “Hm?” His eyes are hooded, pupils dilated and cheeks flushed. 

“God,” Ben whispers. “You’re wonderful.” 

Sammy blushes harder and turns away, feathers fluffing up in agitation. “You don’t… You don’t have to say stuff like that, Ben.” 

Ben strokes over the tops of Sammy’s wings again, tucking the feathers back in. “I really, really, do.” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows after he finished speaking. Sammy’s flush bleeds onto the back of his neck, and Ben  _ has _ to lean forward and kiss him, right at the top of his spine. 

If he had the power, he’d freeze this moment right here. Sammy, meltingly loose and relaxed against him. The setting sun tinting the light in the room pink and gold. Their feathers, brown and white and black, strewn across the floor. 

Ben takes a deep breath and presses his face against Sammy’s neck. Sammy smells like cloves and spice, some deodorant that he definitely stole out of Ben’s bathroom cupboards when they moved in together.  _ I love you _ , he thinks. He can’t say it out loud right now, not with the implications it would have after all this time. 

But he thinks Sammy knows anyway. 


End file.
